Waffles and Eggs
by littledormouse
Summary: Some people are wrong for each other. But others are fated to find love together. The Dark Lord has returned, and the world is on the edge of shattering. Love might just save them, but it's not going to be easy. Especially when it all begins with a breakfast of waffles and eggs. Multiple parings, no bashing of any character. This is a pure love story with a happy ending for all.
1. Chapter 1

**1. Waffles and Eggs**

Hermione doesn't like breakfast. She doesn't like sitting between Ron and Harry, and pretending to be able to enjoy her tea (it's too bitter anyhow, she hates earl grey) while Lavender whispers in Ron's ear as she perches on his lap. She doesn't like pretending that she can't see Harry's eyes—that she can't see how he is shattering, quietly, as the rest of the world chatters away over bacon and toast. She doesn't like pretending that he isn't achingly lonely, that he isn't horribly afraid. She doesn't like not being able to tell Ron how she hates, _hates, _his awed, moony, face when he is with Lavender. She doesn't like not being able to tell Harry that he is not alone. She would tell him, but she knows it won't matter; it's Ginny he wants, not her.

Hermione tilts her head. Ginny's there, at the end of the long Gryffindor table. Her pale arms wrapped around Dean, their bodies tied in some sort of unbreakable knot. Red hair against dark skin, her high laughter like a bell against his lower voice. They are a striking pair, but somehow Hermione knows they are strikingly wrong.

She goes back to her tea. She takes a sip. Bitter, like she expected. Still, it makes her frown. Harry looks at her. He smiles, and she does too because it's _so _lovely. And because Harry's smile will never be hers, but right now, it is _for her. _He reaches across the table and takes a few (more than she would have put in, but he's Harry, so she doesn't stop him) sugar cubes from the bowl, plopping them into her mug. She stirs the tea, waiting until she's sure the sugar has dissolved. Harry is still watching her.

"Go on, then."

Hermione brings the mug up to her lips, hiding her face behind it (but she's not blushing, she's not) and takes a sip. The tea is lukewarm now; it's been waiting too long. And it's so sweet that it sets her teeth on edge. But isn't that fitting (and doesn't the world need a little more sweetness?), she thinks? Everything is on the edge. They are children, and the world is on the edge, about to crash around them. Harry is grinning beside her, teasing, and she is on the edge of crying because he doesn't love her.

She doesn't cry. She smiles, and pretends it's all O.K. Because she's Hermione. That's what she does.

* * *

Neville Longbottom thinks breakfast might just be the best part of the day. Most students are half asleep, mindlessly shoving food in their mouths. Not, of course, that Neville's _judging_ about the shoving of food. He does it too. His jaws work mechanically as he flips pages in his book. Today, it's a book of muggle plants. He reads about the venus flytrap, the purple thistle, the trout lily. He likes the names best. For muggle words, they sound interesting. He continues to eat and read, consuming food and information with the same ease used by a venus flytrap to consume insects.

Luna sits besides him. She's pretty good, too, Neville thinks. She doesn't talk or giggle too much. Not like most girls. He reads about the quaking aspen. Neville thinks that most people spend too much time talking. He just wants everyone to shut up and think, or read, even sleep—as long as they're _quiet. _Neville likes the quiet. It reminds him of his parents. They're quiet—they hardly ever speak anymore, and quiet reminds him of plants, too. He likes plants, he loves his parents. Luna's pretty nice. But the rest of them are idiots, and that's why Neville likes breakfast—because the idiots are quiet.

He eats a bite of eggs, he munches on some bacon. He reads about milfoil. Breakfast continues, the quiet hum of voices barely reaching Neville's ears.

* * *

Merlin, Ron is boring. Lavender's sitting on his lap, and he's feeding her toast, and she's so, so bored. So bored that she might break up with him right now, just for the drama. She grins, liking the idea. But then she stops. That would be mean. And Ron is so, so besotted with her. It's kind of cute. Maybe. But who is Lavender kidding? She doesn't care if boys are cute.

Lavender's a really, really bad person. Nobody knows it, but she is. They all think she's just an empty-headed girl who spends all her time snogging boys. It's true, but Lavender's so, so much worse than that. She feels empty (not just her head—everything). And lonely. And she flits from boy to boy because they never evereverever see the real Lavender, and if she had a heart their blindness would break it. Lavender laughs at herself, because she's being such a drama queen. Ron smiles, because he thinks he made her laugh. This just makes her laugh more. It's all so, so insane.

She bends down and places her lips against Ron's, and they're snogging, and she forgets everything. She'll break up with him—maybe tonight, maybe tomorrow—but for know everything is just like whatever, and she doesn't want to think any more and her lipstick is getting smeared off but that doesn't matter because maybe Lavender is almost as pretty as FakeLavender and whatever, whatever, whatever.

She laughs hysterically, but only she can hear the hysteria.

* * *

Draco is _above _breakfast. The digestive systems of Malfoys is advanced enough not to need such a peasant's meal. Draco sniffs. He smirks. He likes thinking of being advanced. He brings a bite of porridge to his lips. His advanced digestive system has been making these disgusting rumbling sounds all morning. Quite inconvenient. He's decided to placate it with breakfast, just this once.

He looks to his right, at Crabbe. His "friend" (Draco doesn't have friends, he has acquaintances, and enemies) currently resembles a chipmunk. His cheeks are so full of bacon and potatoes that he can barely chew. Disgusting. To the left is Goyle. He is slurping his pumpkin juice so loudly that he doesn't hear when Draco mutters something about him having the manners of a pig.

Draco faces forwards again, ignoring his two companions. He stares at the wall. Actually, he's staring at the Gryffindor table, but he _pretends _to himself that he's staring at the wall. He likes to watch how the Gryffindors act with each other. They talk more than any other house, and they touch each other more—just a brush of a hand on a friend's shoulder, or a brief bumping of fists, or a holding of hands between couples. He shivers. Disgusting. All those germs.

They kiss each other more, too. Lavender Brown is perched on Ron Weasley's lap, and her hair is falling in curls around them while they snog. It's unreasonably passionate for breakfast. Breakfast! What a disgusting meal. Seamus Finnegan kisses Susan Bones on the cheek. Lightly, and she blushes (what, is this primary school all over again?), and it's so sickeningly sweet that Draco's advanced digestive system feels the need to be emptied. He simply wants to vomit. But then he gets caught up in Gryffindor-watching again, and his stomach is forgotten.

It's not just the kissing, it's also the touching and the _looking _and the invisible _wanting_ that Draco watches. He's observant, it's just another of the many qualities that make him as brilliant as he is. He watches the gentle companionship between the Luny girl and Neville, and he watches the way Harry's eyes are always darting over to where Ginny sits leaning her head against Dean's shoulder (and he must not think of that, he mustn't) but he leans towards the bookworm beside him as if she's the one keeping him there.

Draco turns back to his own table. It is silent and cold; it is the essence of Slytherin. And just for a second, Draco regrets being all alone at this table of snakes. He wants to speak to the bookworm, and tease Seamus, and touch the soft red silk of Ginny's hair—he shakes his head, clearing the thoughts away. Impossible. His mouth curves cruelly and he laughs at himself silently.

He eats a bite of porridge. The ache in his chest almost disappears. There now. Everything's better. Maybe he should rethink his disgust at this _breakfast event_ after all.

* * *

Harry knows he looks tired and sad. He is. He woke up this morning,

and the boy in the mirror before him was too pale, with large black rings around his eyes. He doesn't really care anymore. All he can think for minutes on end sometimes (it feels like his brain is frozen) is _Voldemort is back, he's back. He's back. _And he can't tell his friends how scared he is. Because he loves them too much to make them more afraid, and if he says something, voices his fear, the world might just crumble that much more quickly.

So Harry pretends. He congratulates Ron on his (incredibly public) relationship with Lavender, and he teases Hermione until she smiles. She's looking tired too. He often wonders how much Hermione understands about him. He lets the thought go. He glances idly around the table. His eye catches a flash of ginger hair and pale skin. It's Ginny.

She's beautiful.

Harry can remember his second year at Hogwarts, in which her obsession with him was embarrassing and annoying, but now he cringes with something akin to jealousy as he watches her with Dean. He bites his lip. It's not _really _jealousy—it can't be, Harry is sure. Ginny's like his sister. He doesn't _like _her, he just...likes her.

He wants to crash his forehead against the table. When did his life become so _complicated_? Oh. That's right. As soon as he was born. Harry knows he's being childish. But it doesn't matter very much if someone is childish in his head, as long as he's _not _outside of his head. And Harry deserves to be a child now, if he wishes, because when else? When else indeed.

* * *

Guilt does not go well with toast. Nor, Ron discovers, does it go well with sausages or eggs, or pancakes, or peppermint humbugs. Despite having the emotional capacity (he's not _quite _sure what that means) of a teaspoon, Ronald Weasley feels guilty. _Bloody_ guilty.

Lavender's gotten off his lap now (_thank _Merlin) and she's leaning her head against his shoulder like some kind of dumb fluffy dog. Her hair is in his face. It tickles. He wants to blow it away, but that would offend her. Girls.

Ron's not sure about Lavender. She doesn't talk to him a lot. They just snog. Which isn't supposed to be a bad thing, but it kind of _feels _like one. There Ron goes again, _feeling._ What does he know? But sometimes he thinks Lavender doesn't like him at all. Sometimes he thinks she's just playing with him. And then she snogs him, which makes everything hazy and he just _feels_, and doesn't think.

Hermione would say that was dangerous—not thinking. But she's the reason why he's feeling guilty. Hermione is Ron's second-best friend in the world, aside from Harry, and he sometimes thinks that he might be in love with her. But then he sees how Hermione stands the same way Harry does—as if she's got the weight of the world on her shoulders, and if she falters even a bit, everything will shatter.

Ron knows that Voldemort is back, and he knows that Harry and Hermione will stop him, because they are strong and brilliant. Ron is not brilliant; he's just there to bind their trio together with pointless jokes and a little levity when all becomes too dark. Ron Weasley feels so young, beside his two best friends, and he knows that _he _will never have to save the world. And he's glad.

He's glad, and Hermione's eyes have dark rings around them and these two things are making him feel so guilty that he wants to stop thinking. So he does. He kisses Lavender, and everything is gone except for Hermione's eyes, which he somehow can't remove from his mind.

* * *

Luna can feel sadness. It feels like fog and damp velvet, and it is clinging to so many of her friends, here in the great hall.

She can feel the deep, echoing loneliness within Neville. She doesn't say anything about it, but she scoots a little closer to him and nudges him with her shoulder.

"What's a mariposa lily, Neville?"

She knows that talking about plants will cheer him up. She half-listens as Neville explains about petals, and tubers, and habitats.

Luna can feel other sadnesses, too. She can feel the bitter, mocking loneliness of Lavender, and she can sense how _wrong _it is when Ron kisses her. She can sense how their spirits clash, tearing each other apart. She can feel the cloying guilt within Ron's mind. She wants to comfort him, but she doesn't know what she would say.

Luna can feel the tears hidden at the corners of Hermione's eyes. _Just let them go, _she wants to say. But Hermione is too strong to cry.

Luna can feel Harry's biting fear, and his _wanting_ for Ginny, and she can see the way his spirit wavers towards the girl at his side.

She can feel the sharp discordance when Dean kisses Ginny. They don't belong, _they don't belong to each other._

It's all so wrong, and Luna can see how it _should be, _but she doesn't know how to fix it.

Neville's finished talking about the mariposa lily. He smiles at Luna bemusedly. He knows she wasn't really listening. He looks at her plate. A small scoop of scrambled eggs lies on it, untouched. Neville shakes his head and pushes half of his waffle onto her plate.

"You have to eat, Luna."

She smiles softly at him. And lifts her fork to take a bite of waffle. She grins a little, crookedly.

"What?"

"Nothing. It's just...waffles and eggs, they don't really _go together, _do they?"

Her voice is too sad.

"Just eat, Luna."

She does.

* * *

_**AN:**_** I'm just a little dormouse and I'm very new here. Please be kind and tell me what you think!**

**Love and Waffles,**

**The littledormouse**


	2. Chapter 2

**2. Flowers and Tears**

Luna is skipping to breakfast, books clutched to her chest, turquoise high-tops tapping merrily against the stone corridor when she hears voices. Angry voices. The light glitters sharply through the arched windows of the hallway as Luna stops to listen. It's Ginny's voice, high and piercing:

"You never talk to me. I don't even know what we are anymore!"

"I thought you were my _girlfriend_, Ginny."

"Just admit it," she says tiredly, "It's always been him. Seamus. _Hasn't it? Dean?_"

Luna can hear Dean's gasp, nothing more than a tight inhalation of air. He sounds as if he's dying. "I don't know what you're talking about, Gin. I'm going now."

He turns, and walks away just a little too fast. And Luna can hear Ginny's gasp, which sounds more like a sob. "Dean!" she shouts, "It's over, then. Because I like you too much...". Her voice trails off, tremblingly.

Luna tilts her head, and walks around the corner as if she's approaching a wild animal.

Ginny is all tight lines: hands pressed against the stone wall tensely, as if her slim pale fingers are buttresses holding up a weighty cathedral about to crumble. Tears streak her face and hang in her eyes, a few dripping down her determined chin.

"It was the right thing, Luna. I _know _it was. But I need someone...can you see? I'm so weak"—Ginny gasps sharply, and Luna throws her arms around her weeping friend. She rubs Ginny's shoulders and strokes her hair gently until the other girl can speak again.

"You're not weak, Ginny. You just said it yourself—you're doing the right thing. Even when it hurts you, you're _always _doing the right thing. Sometimes it scares me...but no matter what, you're not weak."

"Thanks. It's just—after _him_, after You-Know-Who—I can't trust myself to be alone. I'm always afraid that I'll wake up with blood on my hands, or that there will be huge gaps in my memory. That I'll forget who I am."

"Well, you won't be alone," Luna tells her firmly, "and if you forget who you are, I'll tell you again and again until you remember."

A tremulous smile spreads across Ginny's lips.

Luna tugs at her friend's hand. "Come on. I heard there might be blueberry pancakes at breakfast. We don't want the boys to get them all, do we?"

* * *

Harry awakes covered in sweat, his sheets twisted treacherously around him. He'd been dreaming about Cedric's death, as usual. His heart hammers in his chest, Cedric's unending screams—or his own—he doesn't know at this point, echo in his ears. Harry presses his palms to them, a madman's feeble attempt to end the insanity, but still his mind is overrun with the nightmare.

He manages to roll out of bed, his body shivering in the cool barely-morning air. He crouches, fingernails dug into the thick red carpet until his breathing evens out. Dragging himself into the shower and turning it on takes twenty minutes. Washing his hair and rinsing himself in the warm water becomes a feat as difficult as brewing a batch of _felix felices _potion. Drying himself, dressing, and finding his books for the day is as difficult as brewing the potion with Snape looming over him.

It's not until he's fully dressed, bag packed with his wand, books, and a quill that Harry pauses to look at the small antique alarm clock on the dresser. Ah. It's 7:30. Classes don't begin until nine. He groans and shakes his head at his own distraction. Surely Voldemort won't have trouble destroying a boy who is so lost in nightmares. _Good. _He shudders and crosses the thought out, mentally scribbling it away into a smudge of black ink. He chuckles bitterly at himself. Of course he's too weak to even think of his own death.

Harry bites his lip and leaves the dormitory slowly, making sure his footsteps are quiet. The gentle snoring of his mates fades away as he clicks the door shut behind him and turns down the stairs towards the common room. Merlin, he's tired.

Shuffling to the couch closest to the crackling fire, Harry sits and pulls out his incomplete Charms homework from the night before. The instructions are at the top, something about diagramming the wand movements necessary for a complicated spell. Harry's bleary mind balks at the thought of trying to draw the necessary flicks, loops, and swishes on paper.

He's about to give up when he hears Hermione's voice.

"Harry? Why are you here?"

He looks at her for a moment wondering the exact same thing, and she seems to see the question in his eyes. She tilts her head, rolling her eyes in aggravation. "It's Lavender. Apparently Ron broke up with _her_, and she won't stop crying. I think she must have whimpered about it the whole night through—I didn't get any sleep. And this morning she decided to blame it on me. So I just came down here to escape, and I needed to study a little more anyhow..." she trails off, coming to sit beside Harry on the plush couch.

She brightens when she sees the charms assignment in his hand. "Oh, Harry, this is simple. We'll have it done before breakfast; I'm sorry I complained so much about Lavender, this is much more important, of course!"

He smiles a little at his friend's eagerness to help. Already his disturbing dream is forgotten. Hermione pulls out her own homework, textbook-neat and color-coded by motion. He nudges her shoulder gently with his own and asks "what would I do without you, 'Mione?"

She laughs the inquiry away, but Harry shakes his head slightly in awe. He knows the answer to his own question, even if his best friend is too modest to tell him that she is the only reason Harry Potter has a chance at defeating Voldemort, let alone passing all his classes.

* * *

The air within the greenhouse is warm and moist. It smells perfect, like leaves and soil and the silklily blossoms that have just burst open. It's an interesting flower, the silklily. They bloom only during the day of the full moon, and their pollen is an incredibly potent hallucinogenic if dissolved and swallowed.

Neville exhales as he enters his favorite place in the world. He feels lighter here, surrounded by the scents of plants and the gentle caress of humid air that brushes across his face. He breathes it in deeply, letting a small smile cross his lips. Having Herbology first thing on Friday morning is lucky; it feels like a small reward for making it through double potions, which the Gryffindors and Slytherins have last on Thursday.

Professor Sprout is busying herself with the mandrakes at the opposite end of the greenhouse, her fluffy lavender earmuffs ensuring that Neville's entrance goes unnoticed. He doesn't mind. He's here early, of course; the other Gryffindors are still finishing their lunches. He peers curiously at the tables that have already been set up for class. Each station has six plants, long delicate vines that writhe sinuously in the air. They are a pale green color, striped with darker green in an oddly scale-like pattern.

Neville knows what they're going to do today. He grins; although he's never bred a pair of amorous creepers before, he's read about the process extensively. This will be an intriguing challenge, even for him. Neville steps nearer to the vines, cautiously reaching out one hand as if he's about to touch a wild animal. The vine closer to him gives a soft little hiss, and wends it way through the air to nudge at his fingers. He taps its rounded tip lightly, and it recoils with another little whisper. Incredible. Neville will never cease to be amazed by the horticultural wonders that fill the wizarding world.

He's shaken from his reverie by the entrance of the other Gryffindors. Neville hunches his shoulders as they tumble in, their loud voices an unpleasant reminder that his favorite class does include other students. They see that they'll be working in pairs, and pounce on each other as if gaining the perfect partner is necessary to stay alive. Although he's the top student in Herbology, Neville frequently works alone. It doesn't bother him, not really.

Seamus grabs Dean's elbow and drags him to a station in the far corner of the room, Harry and Ron pair off without a word, and Hermione gives Neville an apologetic glance as she's claimed by one of the Patil twins. Neville can never tell them apart despite the fact that they're in different houses. He's just about to resign himself to another day of working alone. It's not terrible, really. He won't have to explain the process to anyone else, at least. But suddenly Lavender's slipping in through the door, her eyes bruised looking with tiredness or the reminder of tears. Her hair hangs down her back in a tangle of brown and gold. Her normally sparkling hazel eyes are a dull murky brown.

Before Neville realizes what's happening, Lavender has taken the only available spot in the greenhouse: directly beside him. He nods stiffly at her, and turns towards Professor Sprout, who is now explaining the days work animatedly.

As she pauses her instruction and rushes to aid Seamus, who's somehow managed to aggravate the creeper enough that it's trying to strangle him, Neville turns back to Lavender.

"We can just start now. I already know how to do this. I'll do the first pair if you want to watch and then you can step in with the others. Or not. But I'm going to start now either way; I think this'll go more smoothly if we give them time." He waits for her to say something, but she just shrugs her shoulders slightly and grips the edge of the table.

Neville bites his tongue and returns to the vines. He picks up the slim blade in one hand and reaches out to deftly grab the end of the thicker creeper. It writhes, stronger than he had presumed, but he manages to keep a steady grip on it. In a flash, he slices off a thin sliver of the waxy green skin, pausing to marvel at the gold-colored fluid that beads to the surface of the wound. The second vine is slimmer, and in a moment it too is dripping small beads of shimmering sap.

He pauses to explain to Lavender, Merlin knows why. "I'm not hurting them for no reason. You'll see in a moment, but basically I need the sap to mix in order for a flower to be produced. This plant was specifically engineered by the wizard Everan Wylett to produce its pollen within the vine, making it impossible for the species to breed in the wild. It can't reproduce without the aide of a wizard. Clever, right?" He'd gone on a little bit longer than planned. She probably wasn't even listening. But then Lavender nods, a small crease pinching her forehead.

"Sure, it's clever, but why? I mean, who cares if it reproduces in the wild or not?" Her voice sounds a little rough, as if she hasn't spoken for a while, but her question makes Neville grin. Lavender Brown might just make his day.

He continues with the plants as he explains, setting their clay pots side by side. "The nectar from the bloom is the most powerful known antidote to any snake venom. Wylett lived ages ago, and wizard medicines weren't yet regulated—he made a fortune selling the nectar to frightened muggles who kept bottles of it with them as a safety measure. He bred the plants so that they were impossible to breed for those who didn't know the secret, and made sure he was the only one who knew." Neville begins to bring the two vines together, wrapping one around the other in a faintly hissing spiral.

"So Wylett had a monopoly on the muggle business because no other wizard could get the plants to reproduce...interesting." Neville nods, pleased that she's understood so quickly, as he reaches the end of the living spiral. He presses the wounds of the creepers together, not surprised at the loud hiss he receives. A few droplets of the golden sap drip down his fingers, tingling warmly as they sink into his skin. The vines go completely still as smooth green skin covers the place where Neville holds the tips together. He steps back, satisfied with his work and sure that the next stage will go smoothly without his help.

"Watch. This should be exciting." Beside him, Lavender is perfectly still, her eyes wide as she focuses on the tiny green bump forming at the apex of the vine spiral. It grows quickly, swelling to the size of a grape and then elongating until it is shaped like a raindrop, the delicate tip showing a hint of red color. It seems to shiver, shaking with the need to bloom, and then all at once the joined vines are topped with a burst of brilliant crimson petals streaked with gold.

Lavender lets out a little squeal and then giggles lightly. "Neville. Look. Our vine supports Gryffindor."

He looks at the flower's bold colors, and raises his eyebrows at Lavender's silliness. And then he chuckles a bit, too. Professor Sprout swoops over to praise their creation, and he and Lavender grin at each other in blatant pride.

Neville reaches for the next set of plants, and Lavender offers to help him hold the vines while he makes the cuts. In twenty minutes, they've produced two more stunning flowers, and are awarded twenty points to Gryffindor by a beaming Professor Sprout.

As they trickle out of the greenhouse and into the chilly autumn morning, Lavender bumps her shoulder lightly into Neville's. "Thanks for telling me about the plants; you should be a teacher someday, Neville. That was the best Herbology class I've ever had." She smiles up at him, tired eyes sparked with a bit of excitement.

Neville's chest tightens, but it feels nearly pleasant, like a hope that has risen too high and just keeps rising. He tries to be cool for once and just nod nonchalantly, but before he can jinx himself into silence he blurts out, "If you want to see something really incredible, just meet me at greenhouse four Monday evening, after dinner."

She looks at him blankly, and for a moment he thinks she's going to laugh at him. And then he realizes that she thinks he's teasing her. "I mean it, Lavender. You're good at plants. I saw it today with the creepers, and I promise you'll love what I'm going to show you." He makes sure his voice is kind and gentle, encouraging. She bites her lip and nods slightly.

"I'd really like to, Neville. See you on Monday?" He grins and nods, and then they both have to rush to Defense Against the Dark Arts.

* * *

Seamus honestly has no idea what's going on with his best friend. Well. He has some ideas. Ginny broke up with Dean this morning, and Seamus may or may not have seen the taller boy cry. But he wouldn't tell anyone, even if Dean did cry. It's his business, and Seamus is, above all, a loyal friend.

He runs a hand surreptitiously through his hair, making it stand up in even more disorder than usual as he sneaks a glance at the boy beside him on the couch. Dean's chocolate skin gleams smoothly in the light of the candles that cast a golden glow around the common room. While both of them ought to be doing their homework, Dean's sketchbook is propped on his knees, a charcoal pencil clutched in his fingers. He's drawing trees, their leaves the shape of teardrops. He smudges his fingers over the leaves, darkening them into a mass of curving lines that surround the carefully drawn tree branches. Dean always draws trees when he's upset. Seamus inhales warily. He has to say something.

Just as Seamus opens his mouth, Dean turns to him. "Blimey, Shay. I know you're staring at me. Stop worrying—I can feel your heart pounding from this side of the couch it's so fast." Seamus blushes and pretends to look back at his History of Magic essay. He's written three words. This is hopeless.

"Dean. I'm just worried about you." He mentally slaps himself. His accent is stronger than usual. _Worrehd. _He really, honestly is worried. He just wants his friend to talk to him so Seamus can stop listening to the bloody silence and imagining whispers in his bloody head. The common room seems suddenly too loud; full with the normal late night crew of jokesters and troublemakers, and those cramming for tomorrow's tests.

Seamus opens his mouth, but snaps it shut as Dean closes his sketchbook and stows his pencils away. "Come on Shay. We've got to talk." His voice sounds heavy, as if going somewhere to talk with his best friend is somehow akin to going to his own execution. Seamus mutely packs his bag, and the two walk out of the common room side by side, matching their steps without thinking about it.

Seamus sighs as they reach their room, more grateful than usual that fifth years have the option of choosing just one roommate instead of living in a larger sleeping dormitory. He perches on the edge of his bed, laughing silently at his scrambled sheets and Dean's, which are pulled tight and folded down neatly on the opposite bed. Dean doesn't face Seamus as he goes to his own bed and lies down, his lanky frame stretching almost the entire length of the mattress. He stares up at the ceiling, which is a dull off-white with a few cracks spidering across it.

Dean's voice is distant as he begins to talk. "I've just been thinking, Shay. Ginny said something when she broke it off with me, something about how it's always been _you_. And I thought she was just imagining things, but really, it always _has_ been you. You're my best friend Seamus. But we're more, too." His breathing is shuddery as the words pour out of him. It's making Seamus nervous. "Aren't we?" Dean asks softly.

Seamus doesn't know what to say. It is an unusual feeling for the young Irish boy, who's normally so much of a chatterbox that Dean has to tell him to shut up or he'll hex him. Seamus thinks about Dean and himself. Of course they're best friends. They take all the same classes and eat breakfast together and share a room and fight about stupid things like whose fault it is that their carpet is burnt. It was Seamus's fault, about the carpet. But Dean forgave him.

And of course they're closer than regular best friends. Seamus has told Dean about his muggle father, and how he left when he found out about Shay's mum, and what a bloody bastard he is. Dean just hugged him, and didn't mind that Seamus might have cried on his shirt.

Dean doesn't mind Seamus watching him when he draws, and he just smiles when the other boy says he knows exactly what Dean is feeling because he understands his art. Seamus thinks understanding Dean's art might be a bit like understanding his soul.

Seamus slips off of his bed, and walks the few steps between them until he's standing over Dean, the other boy's closed eyes and clenched lips sending a flare of pity into Shay's chest. It doesn't feel unnatural to climb into bed beside Dean, laying his body along the taller boy's side and tucking his chin into Dean's shoulder. He bites his lip to hold in a sigh of relief. This feels so instinctive, so insanely perfect and safe.

His voice is low, almost a whisper, but he knows Dean can hear. "It doesn't matter what we are, Dean. We'll always have each other—if it's as friends, or brothers...or something like this..." And he bends over Dean, wiping the other boys tears away with his thumb before he brushes his lips against his best friend's mouth. It feels crazy and brilliant.

He pulls back slightly, and murmurs into the little wisp of warm air that is held between their lips. "It doesn't matter because we're just Seamus and Dean, and whatever that is it will always be exactly what I want. I promise." Dean tilts his face up, eyes wide open and sparkling, and all of a sudden Seamus can feel the darker boy's grin warm and steady against his own lips. Yes, this is crazy and brilliant and crazily brilliant in a way that Seamus never wants to stop. He kisses his best friend with abandon and shouts _Thanks, Ginny _in his head.

* * *

Draco's father never sends him letters. He's stopped minding, but the haughty boy still remembers his first year at Hogwarts. He wrote letters to his father every week, detailing his successes, in class and in making friends with his housemates. He drew pictures in some of them, too. Childish little scratchings made with naïve love. Embarrassing. Slowly, the letters became pitiful cries for attention, for any sort of recognition. And then Draco gave up. He's too mature now to need letters from his father.

So when Alegra swoops down to interrupt his Saturday morning breakfast, he expects the letter to be from his mother. He strokes the owl's glossy black feathers and feeds her a bite of sausage before sending her back to the owlery. The letter is written on thick creamy paper, which is unusual because his mother's stationary is snow white and brittle, but he shakes the small oddity away and opens it. He knows his father's handwriting immediately, the slants and slashes as familiar to Draco as Lucius's face. The slick ink is the color of mercury.

He makes some trivial excuse to Pansy, Crabbe, and Goyle, and then he's almost running out of the great hall and deeper into the castle until he reaches the Slytherin dormitories. The serpent shaped handle of the heavy metal door hisses at him as he mutters "infamy" and steps into the common room. It's cold, as always, forcing Draco to show weakness as he wraps his arms around himself, rubbing lightly at his shoulders to stay warm. He pulls his cloak more tightly across his body, and settles gracefully into one of the green velvet couches nearest to a fireplace full of gleaming silver sparks.

His hands aren't shaking as he unfurls the letter once more, but his heart hammers against his ribs as if it's trying to shatter them. His father's words swim across his vision, pounding into his brain like daggers.

_Draco,_

_The house of Malfoy must rejoice in the Dark Lord's return. He will lead the purebloods to ultimate supremacy, and with his guidance we will at last relegate the mudbloods and blood traitors to their proper place: beneath our shoes. I have consulted the Dark Lord's messengers, and it is time. You will join the ranks of his most trusted servants. Prepare, my son, to excel, to shape our world as a death eater. You will be marked at the end of the year if you have proven yourself worthy. _

Draco slumps against the soft green velvet, feeling so heavy that he is sure he has been transformed into a lead soldier. He should have known. Of course this is to be his fate. The Dark Lord is back, and a new army will rise around him until he is strong enough to destroy the world once and for all. And Draco will be part of it all; part of the killing and cursing, the burning and wounding, the tearing apart of families and the thievery of joy. He gags, and tastes bitter bile in his mouth before he resolutely swallows, ignoring the acid burn along his throat. He is a Malfoy. This is his fate. It is an honorable fate. _I will prove myself worthy. I will be marked. I will serve the Dark Lord. _

Draco Malfoy sits there, staring blankly at the infinite silver sparks trapped within the fireplace until the tears on his cheeks have dried and his slim body is racked with shivers from the cold, indifferent air of the common room.

* * *

_**AN: **_**Thanks for reading! I hope you're enjoying it. Reviews make me cry with happiness! Truly.**


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